


the moon and the stars, and how they rescued each other

by 2wistful



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2wistful/pseuds/2wistful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air is all warm and gold around Zayn, and it contrasts sharply with his hair; he’s the sun and the moon wrapped up in one person and all Harry wants is to be the stars in his sky, so that he might gaze on Zayn forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the moon and the stars, and how they rescued each other

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt: they are neighbours but they don't really talk.

Zayn frowns, staring accusingly at the canvas in front of him. It’s a very large canvas – it was almost too big to squeeze through the door and only fits on one wall in the living room, right in front of the television. Niall complained about it for two hours straight until Zayn reminded him that they only get three channels anyway, and he can still watch Netflix on his phone.

It’s become increasingly difficult to paint recently, with deadlines looming over Zayn’s head, inching closer every passing day when all he wants to do is get away from his work. A couple years ago, it was the best opportunity in the world to get an offer from an art shop that wanted to be the sole commissioner of his work, but now the ordered work is just drudgery, dull obstacles that he doesn’t see himself surmounting anytime soon.

There are five pieces he needs to complete by the end of the month, and all of his canvases are stretched and ready for paint, ready to be agonized and rejoiced over, ready to have his signature placed in the corner and hung on the wall of an extravagant home he’ll probably never see.

Zayn is tired. He gets up from the sagging couch that he’s been staring at the canvases from and goes into the kitchen. He doesn’t want to look at them anymore.

++

Zayn’s been leaving aspirin in front of the door for 2A every Saturday night for about a month and a half now. He’s also been leaving extra quarters on the washing machine in the basement – the one to the far right, under the clerestory window. He always has excess change after buying his cigarettes from the 7/11 on the corner at the end of the block, and figures he might as well share the quarters seeing as he lives in the same jeans and t-shirt for three days straight.

The resident of 2A has a penchant for getting in _very_ late on the weekends, stumbling through the hall at all hours of the night – Zayn doesn’t mind really, he stays up during all hours of the night anyway, and it’s kind of fun observing other people’s habits. He has a thing for taking care of people – making sure they’re all right, and not just dully running themselves into the ground for overlooking details that will derail a person if they don’t pay close enough attention. It’s why he puts aspirin through the mail slot in the door, usually in those charming little travel packets that Niall can never seem to stop bringing home from the drugstore.

The metal lid of the trashcan rings out dully as Zayn disposes of his weekly bag of trash. It’s midsummer, and the LA heat is dry and whispery on his chest and back, without a breath of air to stir up the dust on the street. The sun is about to dip down below the building across the street, and everything is sort of pleasant and golden, washing out the green of the trees next door and the blue of the door to his apartment building, turning it all into some urban southern Californian dream.

Zayn clears his throat, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and hitting the bottom of the back against the palm of his hand rhythmically, evening the tobacco out. 

As he takes the first drag of his cigarette, feeling the smoke slide through his mouth and over his tongue, a resident cat flashes past Zayn, across the street and into an alleyway. A voice sounds from above – inside the building frantically, desperately.

“Cat!” The voice cries.

Without a second thought, Zayn drops his cigarette to the pavement, stubs it out with a scuff of his shoe, and takes off after the cat.

++

After a short chase Zayn ends up cornering the cat between a stack of wooden pallets and a chain link fence, the small multi-colored feline staring anxiously at him, back arched and tail twice it’s normal size.

“Hey, it’s ok, s’alright- no worries.” Zayn murmurs.

Speaking in low tones, calm and soothing to relax the frightened animal, he clicks his tongue behind his front teeth as he holds out his hand for the cat to smell. The cat blinks, and slowly steps forward to sniff Zayn’s extended fingers, before bumping its head against Zayn’s hand. A gentle smile spreads across Zayn’s face at that, and he begins to rub and scratch behind the cat’s ears, a throaty purr vibrating from the cat’s chest, filling the space between them. Zayn slides one palm over the cat and under it’s stomach, lifting it smoothly and placing his other hand under the cat’s hind feet.

Beaming ear-to-ear at his success, Zayn hurriedly trots back across the street and up the stairs into the building, clutching the cat like his life depends on it.

After knocking on all the doors on the first floor and finding no owner for the cat, Zayn’s gone up to the second floor – his floor. Scratching at the cat’s chin all the while, Zayn stops in front of the door to 2A - which is the apartment next to his - calling out an inquiring: “Hello?” He shifts from his left foot to his right, clearing his throat. “I think I have your cat?”

A series of crashes sound from behind the door, and then footfalls that gradually become louder, until the owner of the voice appears, yanking open the apartment door with a bang! It’s his neighbor, a lanky contraption with a mop of russet curls and a set of dimples that light a fire on Zayn’s cheeks, color creeping down his neck just thinking about it.

The guy coughs, then grins, the aforementioned dimples making an appearance – Zayn kind of wants to die.

“Cat!” The guy coos, reaching for the cat in Zayn’s arms.

“Cat?” Zayn repeats, confused.

The guy just stares at him for a minute, arms still outstretched. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Cat. Like in _Breakfast at Tiffany’s”_.

Zayn just blinks, not understanding. Cat starts purring.

The guy drops his arms back at his side, and gives the cat a glare. “Traitor. I don’t have the right to give him a name. We don’t belong to each other. He just lives with me, and I call him Cat. ”

Zayn’s head is spinning. “Here,” he mumbles. “I should, uh-“

“I don’t think I ever got your name,” The guy says, tilting his head to the side. Did he just wink? In all honesty, Zayn can’t tell you. The blood is roaring in his ears and his throat hasn’t been this dry since the time Niall dragged him on a road trip through Arizona and New Mexico.

Zayn blinks, willing his saliva glands to start functioning again. “Zayn,” He croaks, wincing slightly. “Zayn Malik. I live next door, in 1A.”

“Hi, Zayn Malik from 1A, I’m Harry.” Harry grins again, and then pauses. “Do you have the time?”

“The time?” Zayn asks, but Harry’s already grabbed Zayn’s wrist to look at his watch. Cat meows mournfully as it adjusts to only one hand holding it in place, and digs it’s claws into Zayn’s shoulder.

Grimacing, Zayn asks, “What’s so important about the time?”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Harry asks quickly, still clutching Zayn’s wrist. “I have a friend coming over, but he’s very nice, very funny and loud – you won’t have to do much talking, but I’d like to show you my gratitude for rescuing Cat, as it’d be very lonely in this apartment without him.”

Zayn half-nods, letting himself be pulled into Harry’s apartment, stumbling over his own feet as Cat leaps from his shoulder and disappears under the sofa.

Half a second after Harry shuts the door it bangs back open, and a tall man with even taller hair breezes into the room, stopping short once he sees Zayn.

“Who are you?” the tall man asks, and Harry laughs.

“Nick, this is Zayn Malik from 1A. He rescued Cat not five minutes ago.”

Nick steps forward, lifting Zayn’s hand and pressing his lips to it in a dramatic fashion, then pauses for effect. “Nick Grimshaw. We are forever indebted to you, Zayn Malik from 1A. Don’t know what we would do without Cat.”

Zayn shrugs, a flush spreading down his neck. “No problem,” he mumbles. “It was nothing.”

“If nothing means a very big something, then I should agree.” Nick says, and then turns to Harry. “I have Thai in the car, come help me bring it in like a good lad.”

As Harry and Nick duck out of the door, Zayn is left standing in the middle of the apartment, a dazed look on his face.

Cat starts purring again, this time from underneath the sofa.

++

“So Cat just _leaps_ out the window, off the fire escape, and I’m standing there, mouth open, no pants on, and then I see Zayn – I didn’t know it was Zayn at the time, of course, but anyway, Zayn flashes across the street, chasing after Cat, and I’m hanging out the window, waiting for Zayn to reappear, and then I remember I still have no pants on, dash to my dresser, and had _just_ enough time to jam my legs into these jeans before Zayn rings the bell, Cat in tow.”

Nick cackles appropriately at the end of Harry’s story, and slaps Zayn on the back. Zayn smiles, endeared by Harry’s enthusiastic retelling of the story. Reluctantly, he slides back his chair and stands up.

“This was really nice, Harry.”

Harry stands as well, shuffling around the table and unceremoniously throwing his arms around Zayn. A bit startled, Zayn hesitantly places his arms around Harry’s waist for a moment, and then lets go.

Harry, however, has no such inclinations and holds onto Zayn for a long moment, while Nick does a poor attempt at turning a laugh into a cough in the background.

Harry releases Zayn, grasping his shoulders. “Don’t be a stranger, Zayn. I’ll walk you out.”

Once in the hall, Harry lingers in the doorway.

“Are you –“ Harry hesitates. “Never mind. It’s silly.”

“It’s not silly.” Zayn protests.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I won’t think it’s silly.” Zayn says, firmly.

“Are you the one who’s been leaving quarters in the laundry?”

Zayn laughs. He can’t help it. Harry frowns, tucking his bottom lip under his top teeth.

“Zayn! You promised.”

“I didn’t think it was silly!” Zayn protests.

Harry huffs. “Then what did you think?”

“It was….” Zayn swallows, the word ‘cute’ dancing on the tip of his tongue. It _was_ cute. It was cute how unsure Harry had been in the moment, his green eyes shining in the dim hallway, his tongue darting out over his lips as if it were trying to taste the electricity in the air.

“Unexpected,” Zayn says, finally. “It was unexpected.”

“Well,” Harry smiles brightly, apparently taking Zayn’s word for it. “Have you?”

“Have I…?”

“Have you been leaving the quarters in the laundry?” Harry tilts his head, a smirk lifting the corner of his lips, and Zayn can swear that the whole world sighed in unison in that moment.

“Oh.” Zayn coughs into his hand. “Well, yeah. I have.”

Harry claps his hands together, delighted. “I knew it! Nick owes me a fiver now. Thanks Zayn, you’ve been a gem.”

Zayn nods, and Harry’s disappeared into his apartment before the words “no problem” can even leave Zayn’s lips.

He walks back to his apartment next door, and the light bulb above his doorway flickers, mocking him in the way that inanimate objects talk inside your head, repeating themselves over and over in a gleeful monotone: _You’re fucked! You’re fucked! You’re fucked!_

“Shut up,” Zayn mutters, and goes inside.

++

It’s 2:00 PM, and the sun is beating down unforgivingly on the back of Zayn’s neck while he waits for Brutus to stop relieving himself on a scraggly bush that’s planted outside the apartment building. It’s the lone survivor in the two large garden beds on either side of the door, only accompanied by a few dandelions here and there.

It’s a grim sight, made more unpleasant by the way Zayn’s shirt is clinging to his back with sweat. The sun now feels like a hot iron pressed to his neck, and he presses his fingers to his skin, grimacing.

Brutus finishes after what feels like an eternity, and Zayn scoops him up to carry him back inside. A bulldog mix, Brutus has short legs and an even shorter stride, and Zayn is not in the mood to wait for his dog to sniff every dandelion on the way to the door.

Just before Zayn reaches the door, he hears a loud _bang_ , followed by a squawk from above that sounds suspiciously like Harry. The sweat has now made its way down Zayn’s back and reached the waistband of his pants, and he _really_ doesn’t have time for this.

Backing up, Zayn brings his hand up to shade his eyes from the midday sun, and is offered an interesting scene: Harry is shirtless and shoeless, trying to pry open his apartment window with his bare hands.

“Need some help?” Zayn calls up, and Harry stops mid-pry.

“Zayn?” Harry asks, turning his back to the window to peer down at the sidewalk. “Zayn! I’m stuck. Well, the window’s stuck, so I’m stuck.”

“I can tell,” Zayn says, squinting and trying to not stare at the laurels that are tattooed just above the V of Harry’s hipbones. “Can you jump?”

Harry scrunches up his features, and shakes his head. “Not gonna risk it. Might rip my jeans.”

“You might rip your–“ Zayn cuts off disbelievingly in the middle of his sentence. 

“Yes, _Zayn_ , these jeans are designer.” Harry strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Do you know anyone with a ladder?”

Zayn frowns at Harry. He does know someone with a ladder, but he also knows the someone with a ladder is _very_ attractive and _very_ nice.

“I know you do, Zayn,” Harry sing-songs, dimples on full display. “Please Zayn, help me save my jeans.”

“Fine,” Zayn mutters, and Harry cheers as Zayn retreats into the blessedly cool air of the apartment lobby to get his phone and call the owner of the ladder.

++

Zayn’s been sitting outside in a sliver of shade for the past ten minutes while he waits for Liam, also known as the someone with the ladder, to arrive. Harry pesters him with questions, but Zayn is hot and tired, and only gives halfhearted answers to which Harry responds enthusiastically, as if Zayn’s actually conversing with him in an equally animated manner and not groaning every time Harry brings up the benefits of doing yoga at sunrise.

“Liam!” Zayn exclaims, bounding up when a truck rounds the corner, the blessed ladder along with it.

“Liam?” Harry asks, and Zayn ignores him. The truck parks next to the curb, and Liam hops out before the engine’s even fully died.

“Liam, hi,” Zayn says, his grin only half forced.

“Zayn!” Liam pulls Zayn into one of those weird half-hug things, and Zayn gets even more baffled when Liam attempts to do some fancy handshake along with it. If Liam notices, he’s a good sport and says nothing.

“You said you have someone stuck on a fire escape?”

“That’s me,” Harry calls down crossly. “I’m Harry.”

Liam looks up, towards Harry’s voice. “Hello!” Liam waves. “I’ll have you down in a jiffy.”

As Liam goes to fetch the ladder from the truck, Harry hisses down at Zayn.

“You didn’t tell me he was going to be attractive!”

A flicker of heat flares up in Zayn’s chest. “I thought you just wanted to get inside, Harry.”

Harry frowns. “I do. But–“

Zayn sighs. “Let’s just get you down, okay?”

“Will you introduce me to Liam?”

“He’s retrieving you from a fire escape, Harry. I think that’s introduction enough.”

“All right!” Liam interrupts, ladder in tow. “Here we go.”

Liam’s biceps look especially good as he steadies the ladder against the railing, and Harry’s leaning over it, smirking.

Zayn stares at a particularly interesting spot next to his foot on the pavement.

“Steady,” Liam says, holding the base of the ladder for support as Harry climbs down. When Harry reaches the bottom, he beams at Liam.

“Thank you so much, Liam! Would you like to come in, maybe have a glass of water?” Harry offers, dimpling.

Zayn thinks he’s going to be sick. Also, his hair is completely wet with sweat and he’s pretty sure this is officially the worst day on record.

Liam accepts Harry’s offer graciously, and Harry clings to Liam’s bicep all the way to his apartment door.

Zayn goes back to his apartment next door, and takes a cold shower, trying not to think about Harry and Liam and how Harry didn’t even say thank you.

++

It starts with loud murmurs in the hallway.

Zayn’s already half-awake but he’s not pleased by the constant noises that manage to filter through the walls. He yawns, blearily rubbing his eyes as he lurches up out of bed.

Niall’s slightly asthmatic, and for him Zayn keeps his smoking habits contained to the outdoors. Grabbing a pack of cigs off his dresser, he shuffles to the door, not even bothering with shoes.

As soon as he’s shut the door, a pair of hands grips his shoulders, spinning him around.

“Zayn!” The pair of hands exclaims. Zayn’s not even the least bit startled.

“Harry,” Zayn sighs. His eyes are still glued half shut, which would explain why he could only see Harry’s bottom half at the moment.

Harry’s hands on his shoulders are warm, and a tingly feeling settles nicely at the bottom of Zayn’s stomach. He’s awake now.

“Isn’t it a bit early to be accosting people in the hall?” Zayn asks, squeezing his pack of cigarettes between his suddenly sweaty palms.

“It’s 4pm,” Harry blinks owlishly.

“Oh.” Zayn says eloquently.

“Anyway, Zayn, I’m in a pickle. I’m desperate for help.”

Zayn eyes Harry’s pleading face, already knowing he’s going to give in to whatever scheme Harry’s got at the moment. He’s already had to rescue Cat again twice this week, teach Harry how to make a proper smoothie, and sweet-talk a traffic cop into not towing Harry’s broken-down car (it was illegally parked in front of their building).

Zayn hasn’t been this busy in months.

“Of course I’ll help,” Zayn complies, and Harry whisks Zayn into his apartment without even giving Zayn a chance to smoke.

Although Zayn’s been in Harry’s place plenty of times now, he always looks at it like he’s seeing it for the first time.

The whole place is a pleasing jumble of cluttered furniture and odd knick-knacks. The kitchen is tucked to the right, appliances littering the countertop along with paper bags full of day-old groceries. Harry is a religious paper bag user, horrified whenever the cashier even offers plastic. The living area has two sofas, pushed together so that there’s barely a foot between them. It makes for better conversation, Harry says. Various potted plants surround the window, and Harry has names for every single one. Picture frames cover most of the walls, art that Harry’s collected on his travels. Zayn likes the ones from Guatemala, bright and cheerful in vivid hues.

“So.” Harry states, trying to look solemn. “I’m supposed to be having a dinner party.”

Zayn laughs, tries to turn it into a cough, and fails. “Sorry,” he apologizes.

Harry doesn’t acknowledge it. “Nick’s coming, obviously, and he’s bringing Alexa, and Pixie, and whoever they drag along, and –“ Harry stops.

Zayn waits. Harry can never keep quiet about anything; it’s a trait that’s both harmful and beneficial.

“And Liam.” Harry finishes. _Ah_ , Zayn thinks. _There it is_.

“That’s nice,” Zayn says coolly. “You two must have hit it off.”

Harry nods, and doesn’t say anything for once – lost in thought about Liam probably. Zayn wants to jump out the window.

“You need help with the party.” Zayn says. It’s more of a statement than a question, but Harry answers it anyway, with a question of his own. “Would you, Zayn?”

Of course he will. And he does. Zayn selects the music, hiding Harry’s battered Fleetwood Mac CD collection, swearing up and down that he hasn’t seen it and plays something he had Niall bring over, something soft and indie that’ll impress Harry’s weird friends. He helps Harry cook, setting Harry in front of the stove and telling him to stir, while Zayn throws together some dishes of chicken and rice and vegetables while Niall watches mournfully from the living room – he’d been exiled after one too many snitched forkfuls.

Zayn sets the table as well, borrowing some of Harry’s potted plants and candles, centering them on the table, and Harry beams at Zayn, telling him it’s _perfect, just perfect_. Zayn’s soft and glowing from Harry’s praise, about to float above the floorboards from happiness – and then the illusion is shattered.

The doorbell buzzes, and Harry’s friends come pouring in, one after the other, cooing over Zayn’s handiwork while Zayn sits on the sofa with a plate of food, seemingly aloof but really just unsure and out of his element. One of Alexa’s friends has captured Harry, and Zayn just barely catches her compliment that she whispers into Harry’s ear.

“This is so lovely Harry, come to mine next week to help me set up my next dinner party, won’t you?”

Zayn waits for Harry to smile, shake his head, point to Zayn while saying, _It wasn’t me, he did all the work_. Harry does smile at Alexa’s friend, gives her a charming grin, says, “Absolutely,” and Zayn’s heart plummets, splashing directly into his stomach. He abandons his plate and lurches up out of his seat on the sofa, weaving around several people and past Nick, who has the decency to wave at him, and goes out the door.

The music filters through the walls softly. The music Zayn had picked for Harry. Zayn’s heart thumps in his chest painfully.

He ends up chain-smoking in his room for half the night. Niall’s going to have to get over it for once.

Niall tells him about it later, as Zayn’s sprawled forlornly on his bed, that Harry asked for Zayn late on, that Nick had told Harry that Zayn had gone, and that Harry hadn’t seemed regretful. Niall has his apologetic face on as he tells Zayn these things, and Zayn just sighs and turns to face the wall.

He doesn’t want to hear what he already knows: he’s fallen for someone who won’t even give him the time of day.

++

The phone rings, shrilly and too loud on his bedside table, and Zayn licks his lips, pressing them together reproachfully.

It’s Harry. The phone rings again. He knows it’s Harry, because Niall is in the living room and his mother only calls on weekends. The phone doesn’t stop ringing and yet Zayn just stares at it, willing it to go to voicemail.

Niall bursts into the room, red-faced. “Will you just answer the damn phone?”

Zayn blinks at him, tightening his jaw. The phone rings again, and Niall picks it up, mid-ring.

“Hello? Yeah, it’s Niall. Hi Harry.” Niall pauses, listening to Harry.

Zayn drums his fingers against his thighs. He hates this. He hates knowing that Harry’s going to ask him for a favor and that he’ll agree – he’ll agree because he’s practically in love with Harry, and Harry will accept his favor, and then go out into the world breaking hearts left and right while Zayn mopes around in his apartment with a looming deadline for his paintings and an ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes.

Niall holds out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

Zayn takes it wordlessly. “Yeah?” He speaks into the phone.

“Zayn, hi.” Harry’s breathless, because he always is. He’s always rushing around from one scheme to another, and as a result is always slightly winded.

“So, Zayn. It’s my mother’s birthday tomorrow, and I hate to do this, but—“ _Do you really_ , Zayn thinks. _Do you really hate to do this?_

“—I know you do paintings, and well, I was wondering. Do you think you might have one that I could give to her? I know this is short notice, but—“

“Sure,” Zayn tells him faintly, and Niall gives a disapproving grunt. “Come by whenever.”

Harry thanks him profusely, and then hangs up. Zayn gets up off the bed, and goes out into the living room, Niall trailing behind him.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Niall asks him. Zayn arranges himself on the sofa. “I’m hopeless Niall.” Zayn says. “I can’t stop. No matter how much I don’t want to, I always have to help him.”

Niall nods. There’s nothing else to say, really. All they can do is watch from the sidelines, removed from the situation and helpless to stop it.

They sit in silence until Harry’s knock, and Niall gets up and lets him in, watching Zayn’s face light up at the sight of Harry. _Helpless to stop it_ , Niall thinks, and goes into the kitchen.

Harry leaves with one of Zayn’s favorites from a few months ago, a smaller piece with streaks of green mingling with ochre and cerulean. He had painted it in a small park a few blocks down – it was an abstract of a small house across the street from the park.

Niall comes back out of the kitchen, and hands Zayn a joint. They share it, passing it back and forth between them on the sofa, staring out the window until the joint’s become a stub too small to hold. Zayn doesn’t let go of it though, welcoming the stinging sensation of the hot ash on his fingertips.

The view outside the window becomes a kaleidoscope of hues, shifting and turning until everything’s upside down and inside out and Zayn’s become a different version of himself – one that feels mildly optimistic for once.

++

It’s been a week since Zayn gave Harry the painting for his mother, and Harry’s still been by at least once a day. Monday it was because a button popped off his favorite shirt and he didn’t know how to sew it back on, and Thursday he wanted Zayn’s opinion on whether or not Cat should be eating organic cat food, and then he had dragged Zayn to the grocery with him just in case.

Today Harry had bounced in with uncontainable enthusiasm. Zayn had just woken up and was slightly dazed and caught off guard, although thinking back on it he knows he should be used to it by now.

Anyway, Harry had bounced in, invited both Zayn and Niall to a party he was having that night, and wouldn’t hear it when Zayn tried to decline.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Zayn’s voice idly floats through the hot, thick air. The air conditioning’s gone out, and the apartment is sweltering. It’s kind of air that seeps into every pore and smothers you as you lie there, sweating on your bed in the middle of the night. The kind that constricts your breathing and makes your thoughts sluggishly circle around your brain like a singular goldfish in a glass bowl.

Across the room, Niall taps the ash from his cigarette in a half-empty coffee cup that sits on a rickety cocktail table that’s covered with rings from all the coffee cups of the past three years.

“Not much you can do, man. I mean, either you go or you don’t. He’s not gonna stop inviting you to stuff though. Maybe you should not show up, make a statement.”

Zayn nods glumly, rubbing the thick stubble on his chin. He can’t remember the last time he’s shaved. Hell, he can’t remember the last time he’s looked in the mirror for that matter.

“Well,” Niall intones, trying to sound intelligent in a droll sort of way. “You sitting here on your arse isn’t gonna get you him either way. I think you should go to the party.”

“Yeah?” Zayn asks him. “You’ve been kind of against this whole… thing.”

Niall shrugs, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Yeah, but I don’t want you in this limbo either. Maybe you guys could talk about it.”

Zayn laughs derisively. “I can’t do that.”

Niall stubs out his cigarette. “So? Drink some vodka and you’ll be word-vomiting in no time.”

Niall stands up, effectively ending the conversation. Zayn glares at Niall’s back as Niall leaves the room.

++

Zayn’s taken Niall’s advice, and downed a few quick shots as soon as he walked in the door. Now he’s wandering around Harry’s place in a pleasant haze, smiling at and talking to people he doesn’t know. It’s six in the evening, the heat hasn’t let up, and beads of sweat are on everyone’s upper lips – even Harry’s, and he’s immune to the LA heat.

After a few hours, he ends up out on the fire escape to get some air, the same fire escape that he had to rescue Harry from only a few weeks ago. It seems like it’s been a longer time than that.

Zayn presses his head against the metal of the stair rail, and it’s a pleasantly cool relief from the warm air inside Harry’s apartment. He can see the highway from up here, and he watches the cars from the distance. They look like small metallic fireflies, slowly finding their way down the ribbon of highway as the streetlamps glint harshly off their reflective backs.

A creak sounds behind Zayn, and Harry slides into his peripheral vision.

“Hey,” Harry says. He sounds a lot more sober than Zayn feels. “I was wondering where you went.”

“Needed some air.” Zayn offers.

Harry nods. “Remember when I got stuck out here and you had to help me get down?”

Zayn smiles. “Like it was yesterday.”

Harry coughs into his fist. “Liam’s dating this really nice girl now. Sophia. Did he tell you?”

Zayn shakes his head no. “I don’t really keep up with Liam a whole lot.”

Harry’s quiet.

“You know,” Zayn says. “I like you, Harry.”

Harry looks over at Zayn, who’s still looking out at the highway, blinking rapidly.

“I don’t do for other people what I do for you. I like helping people, but with you it was more.”

“I—“ Harry starts, but Zayn’s not finished.

“You don’t seem to really notice or care, Harry, and I’m tired of it.” Zayn bites out. His whole body feels warm, the blood moving rapidly through it. His fingers are tingling. “I can’t keep putting my entire life on hold, Harry. I have six paintings due to a firm in less than a week and I haven’t even begun any of them.” Zayn can’t stop now, the words spilling out of his mouth faster than he can even think.

“I don’t want to wait around hoping you’ll notice me and getting hurt every time you have a fling. I can’t do that.”

Harry just stares at him, mouth slightly parted, lips still glistening from his cocktail.

Zayn laughs, but it’s a miserable sound. “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure— I’m pretty sure I was in love with you.”

The word _was_ hangs in the air between them as Zayn finishes. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, Harry. I’m done.”

With that, Zayn turns away, hands shaking, and leaves the party.

Harry stays out on the fire escape, feeling a terrible ache well up in his chest. Nick finds him later, sitting out on the stairs forlornly.

“I thought you knew.” Nick offers.

Harry shakes his head. “I’ve been such an idiot.”

Nick presses his lips together sadly. “He was one of the best things to happen to you, H.”

Harry inhales sharply. “I know that now.”

“What are you gonna do?” Nick asks.

Harry’s quiet. A car passes below, filling the air with noise that just dies away just as quickly as it came. “Don’t know yet.” Harry says. “Would you—?”

Nick nods, quickly, calmly. “I’ll ask everyone to go home.”

Harry feels somewhat comforted as he watches his apartment empty out, people leaving one by one. Nick asks him if he wants him to stay, but Harry doesn’t feel like being pitied, which Nick would do even while he denied it.

And so, alone in his apartment in the middle of the night with only a lukewarm cup of tea, Harry devises a plan. A plan to win Zayn back.

_Step One: Win over the best friend_  
_Step Two: Do Things for other people_  
_Step Three: Reestablish contact with Zayn_  
_Step Four: (To be determined)_

It’s a good plan, Harry’s 100% sure of it. Sort of.

++

Harry’s been trying his hand at baking. He’s even been taking classes.

The oven beeps, and Niall perks up. “Relax,” Harry tells him. “It’s just the preheat thingy. They haven’t even gone in the oven yet.”

Niall frowns. Harry sticks his tongue out.

So far, the plan is working. Harry actually really enjoys Niall’s company, and Niall really enjoys the food. Niall was reluctant at first, but then Harry learned to tell the difference between baking powder and baking soda and his baked goods improved immensely. Harry avoids talking about Zayn though, and tries hard to be nonchalant when Niall brings him up.

He’s learned that after that night, Zayn threw himself into his work and finished all of his paintings. Harry was overjoyed when he heard, but it was bittersweet. He should have been there to congratulate Zayn. He should have been there for Zayn.

He’s also been Doing Things for People, as per the list. He’s given away clothes and art and babysat for his sister and watched Nick’s dog, and learned a lot in the meantime – one of which is that it feels really nice to Do Things for People.

Niall interrupts Harry’s train of thought by clearing his throat. “You know what you should do?”

Harry looks up at him, curious.

“You should go down to the beach. To Malibu.” Niall says.

“Why—“ Harry says.

“Because. Zayn hates the beach. But he’s there.” Niall shrugs. “You should go.”

Harry jerks up out of his seat. “Put the cookies in the oven for me?”

Niall shrugs again. “I like it raw too.”

“Thanks.” Harry tells him, and flies out the door.

++

His car is still broken down, and the bus takes forever. Harry spends the entire ride bouncing up and down on his toes until an older woman glares at him and he’s forced into standing still for the rest of the ride.

When he finally arrives at the beach, the sun is starting to set. He pushes past groups of teenagers and families with beach bags heading home.

Harry travels the full length of the beach, and doesn’t see Zayn anywhere. He’s about to give up, when suddenly, he sees him. Zayn’s dyed his hair silver in the two weeks Harry hasn’t seen him and it looks so striking that the air rushes out of Harry’s lungs. The air is all warm and gold around Zayn, and it contrasts sharply with his hair; he’s the sun and the moon wrapped up in one person and all Harry wants is to be the stars in his sky, so that he might gaze on Zayn forever.

Zayn turns unexpectedly, and their eyes meet. Harry looks away, and begins walking in the other direction. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, really – he should just—

“Harry?” Zayn calls out. Harry turns back to face Zayn. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Zayn says. “I want to thank you, you know. For what you did.” Zayn pauses. “It meant– means. Means a lot.”

“What did I do?” Harry asks.

Zayn smiles. “You got me out of my slump. I got all my paintings done, and I’ve started some more, and Nick wants some for his shop, and—“

“Zayn,” Harry interrupts gently. “We’re at the beach.”

Zayn glances away, then back over at Harry. “Yeah.”

“Zayn,” Harry repeats. “You _hate_ the beach.”

“I know,” Zayn says cryptically. “That’s why I had to come.”

“I don’t understand-“

“Harry!” Zayn’s emphatic. “It’s not always about understanding. Sometimes it’s just about doing.”

Harry nods. “I know what I want to do.” Zayn knows what Harry wants to say, and shakes his head. “Harry—“

“Zayn, will you please let me take you out?”

“No— I can’t let you—“

“This isn’t a pity thing, Zayn." Harry says firmly. “It took me until now to realize how much I do like you, how much I really truly do, and I want to make it up to you. You see-“ Harry pauses, chest heaving slightly. “I’d been so blind to your affections and your actions. It took until I was left without them to realize how much I needed them. And I’m so _sorry_ , Zayn.”

Zayn is quiet. The wind picks up, lifting the seagulls in the distance high into the horizon, above the sunset. Studying Harry’s face, he picks up his hand, rubbing his thumb gently across Harry’s knuckles. Harry’s eyes are wide and hopeful, his hands smooth and strong. Without hesitation, he slides his free hand gently up Zayn’s neck to rest at the nape, and draws Zayn’s face closer to his, so close that Zayn can feel Harry’s breath whisper against his skin.

Zayn’s eyes flutter close and Harry smiles before bringing his lips to Zayn’s. It’s a soft kiss, just a taste of what Harry’s trying to promise to Zayn in this moment.

The kiss ends, and they just stand together, chests pressed close and foreheads even closer.

“Thanks for rescuing Cat,” Harry tells Zayn, who tilts his head and smiles until his eyes crinkle at the corners. “And for rescuing me.”

“You know, I think we rescued each other.” Zayn says, and draws Harry closer.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to k, e, and n, for listening to me when i needed it.


End file.
